


Breaking

by sparrowinsky



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's a little weird because of Charon's contract, Please Don't Hate Me, also this is SO OLD, and I didn't edit it at all, idk - Freeform, so it's sort of consent and sort of not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/sparrowinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon and the Lone Wanderer take an all-too-brief break from the Wasteland madness. Things happen.</p><p>"Order me to stop."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this I was just writing porn and I have a dubious consent kink (also a HUGE GHOUL KINK YAY GHOULS). I also had no real framework for any of the issues around dubious consent because I was like 18? 20? and totally dumb. 
> 
> If that's all good with you, go ahead and read the smut.

_Fuck._  
  
He'd wanted adventure. He'd wanted Azrukhal dead and himself out of that disgusting pit of a bar, and be careful what you fucking wish for.  
  
Countless years standing in the same damned corner of the same damned bar had apparently romanticized the memory of bullets. He's remembering fast why the first few months with Azrukhal had been almost a relief. And even before then, he'd had a boss who knew how to handle a fight. Not like this crazy shit.  
  
Not like some kid who he is  _required to protect_  running out into the middle of a bunch of fucking Raiders with nothing but some disturbing knife-chainsaw hybrid. Charon's not used to fear, but damn it, he likes the kid, sort of, and she's going to get herself  _killed._  
  
So he abandons cover, throws sensible tactics to the wind, and covers her ass. Not that she notices, tearing into Raiders with almost the same aura of glee as the dog.  _Fucking creepy,_ he thinks,  _the both of them._  
  
So, fine, whatever. She's a nutjob. It's probably why he likes her  _(sort of)_  in the first place. She's a little wrong in a lot of ways, and he's a lot wrong in pretty much every way, and the dog is just a damned dog even if it can take down Centaurs without blinking. It's a good fit.   
  
Not that he should think that, and when did all of these emotions start popping up, anyway? He doesn't like her. Of course not. He doesn't  _like_ anybody.   
  
He could handle the Raiders, if only just. He can handle the complete lack of commonsense, the disregard for anything resembling tactics, the foolish, overflowing goodwill that she flings at everyone they meet. He can deal with this stuff. She holds his contract, so it's his responsibility. He doesn't like it, oh no. But he'll manage.  
  
He's not sure he can handle her wandering into a camp full of  _Super fucking Mutants_  while his back is turned, because someone with a sob story and sad eyes asked her to. No, he can't handle that at all, not when he realizes that she  _left all the fucking weapons behind._    
  
That's the moment when he first begins to realize that his contract is held by someone who is flat out insane.  
  
When he pelts into the camp  _(tactics?)_ , heart pounding  _(from the run)_ , she's just... standing there.  
  
Surrounded by dead Super-Mutants. And, to his dead-eyed stare: “What? I had grenades. That's all you need for these bastards.”  
  
He lets her walk off, because, well, fuck, what does she need him for then, and also he's not sure he's not going to  _strangle_  her. Which probably goes against his contract. 

On top of everything else, she has the audacity to flirt with everything on legs when they get back to the crossroads. Even that smug fucker from Carol's who comes up to meet the caravans. He's  _never_  liked that guy.  
  
Fuck, whatever. He's never liked anybody.  
  
He keeps quiet as they make their way back to Underworld, trying to ignore the smirking glances she keeps shooting him. Smug, amused looks, like he's sulking, and who's the fucking kid here anyway? It's not his problem if she wants to hang around with people and let her guard down. She's going to get herself killed... which, okay, is kind of his problem, but whatever.   
  
He's quiet, and she's quiet (which is fucking  _weird_  because the kid usually never shuts up) and the dog is nowhere to be found, so it's probably going to come back tomorrow carting some incredibly huge, fresh body part of some unidentifiable animal.  
  
That dog worries him almost as much as the stupid robot in Megaton.  
  
He's got this silent thing down pat. Years of experience. Until, having gone through the process of renting them a room  _(single bed again, the Wastes must be getting full of people these days for everything to be booked up)_ , she turns to him and says:  
  
“You're pissed, aren't you?” Smug, still, like she's got a reason. “Tell me why.”  
  
He drops onto the bed with vehemence, the springs squealing satisfactorily in return. And says nothing.  
  
“Charon, tell me-- “ And then she stops, leans against the door, and smiles. It's a little unnerving... the same smile she'd had in the Raider fight. “Charon... I  _order_  you to tell me. In fact... you've got an hour to tell me everything that's on your mind. For an hour, Charon-- do whatever you want.”  
  
He can't do anything but sit and state as she peels off her bags, armor and weapons. She strips down to the shorts and thin shirt she favors in Megaton, blithely oblivious to the way her word have stunned him (roughly the way a brick to the head might).  
  
He tastes the words in his mind. Anything I want. Anything I  _want_.  
  
"... _anything_  I want?"  
  
"Well, I mean, no slaughtering innocents or, I don't know, sacrificing Brahman, or anything like that, I guess, but... yeah, do whatever." She doesn't seem to notice as he rises. "You're not my slave, Charon, I mean, you should get to do your own things someti--!"  
  
It's a damned bad idea, he thinks, as he spins her around and shoves her back against the wall, hand to her throat. ...but she said anything. She  _ordered_  it.  
  
And right now, what he  _wants_  is to make her understand she's a damned fool.   
  
She trembles under his hands, but her eyes are fierce and her mouth open to speak.  
  
“You're an idiot,” he grates out, before she can spout whatever snippy comment she intended. “You're a stupid little girl, and you don't understand anything. You think you can trust people? You think you can trust  _me_?” He presses her into the wall, his hand perhaps a little too tight on her throat, but fuck if he isn't going to  _terrify_ some sense into her. “That contract says you can trust me... but you don't know who I am. You think the world is out to make friends with you, like some little  _child._ ”  
  
Something dark and angry flashes in her eyes.   
  
“I'm a child, am I? A little girl? What're you going to do,  _spank_ me?”  
  
She'll face muties and Raiders without a second thought, but she flinches when his fist slams into the wall beside her head. Both action and reaction are oddly satisfying.   
  
“Now that you mention it? Yes.” He gives her no time to respond, swinging her around and flinging her roughly onto the bed. She bounces up in an instant, lunging for her weapons, but he's faster, grabbing both her arms and twisting them behind her back. She makes a small, choked sound of pain before launching herself backwards in an attempt to head butt him.  
  
“Oh, no,” he murmurs, and he is amazed at how gentle his voice sounds. “You gave me an order.”  
  
He drops back onto the bed, easily turning her and bringing her down across his lap. He loosens his hold on her slightly. She could be free-- if she really tried.   
  
She doesn't. She quiets, turning her head to glare at him with glass-green eyes.   
  
“I--”   
  
He doesn't let her finish the thought, raising his hand and bringing it down sharp against her backside before he can let himself rethink it.  
  
He's so going to regret this when it's over... but she bucks in his lap, fighting and twisting and making helpless little sounds, and somehow he doesn't care.  
  
He smacks her again, and again, and though he's venting his anger he tries to be gentle-- as gentle as this could be-- because he doesn't want to  _hurt_  her. He just... wants to make her understand. He wants to make her a little afraid, because she's not afraid at all, and  _that_ scares the shit out of  _him._  
  
Except that the soft yelps start to shift into throaty little whines, and she's not so much struggling now as  _writhing_  and when these two facts come together in his brain he shoves her off of his lap and stands, hands fisted at his sides.  
  
“What the  _fuck_ \--” she scrambles to her feet, panting, staring at him. “What the fuck do you think-- I mean--”   
  
Her chest is heaving and she wants, she wants very much, all flushed and sweat-shiny and already smelling like sex.   
  
Charon can only breath as he listens to the almost audible  _crack_ of his self-control shattering. He slams her back against the wall, some small sarcastic corner of his mind thinking  _well, this is different_  before he kisses her with crushing force.  
  
She tenses against him in a way that's oddly familiar, and he draws back to see a flash of something like fear in her eyes. It cools his lust, and he scrambles for something like humanity.  
  
“You-- order me--  _order me to stop._ ”  
  
She doesn't.  
  
It feels like an eternity, waiting for the words to fall from her lips, but she just  _looks_ at him with this indecipherable expression and something almost like a  _smile_  on her lips.   
  
And then she kisses him.  
  
And  _fuck_  self-control anyway, he thinks, before the capacity for reason flees from his mind and he pulls her tight against him, nothing but raging, animal lust wrapped around a core of some quiet thing he doesn't understand.  
  
She slides her tongue into his mouth and what few synapses left working in his brain misfire spectacularly, and he pretty much gives up, pulling her back onto the bed, never letting their mouths part. He rolls them over and grinds against her, reveling in the throaty whimpers it elicits. She wants so bad she's shaking, and he's not much better. Worse, in fact, because it's damned sure she's had a man between her legs far more recently than he's been between anyone's, and even with his armor between them it's almost too much to bear.  
  
And  _oh, yeah,_  armor, and he wonders just how stupid he's gotten, because memory is reminding him that being naked does tend to help in these situations. Then again, to strip he'd have to get up, and he's not sure he can leave this tangle of limbs and tongues.  
  
She answers the issue for him, tugging awkwardly at the catches to the shoulders of it. He chuckles, the sound raw and rusty from disuse, and then laughs at the flash of indignation on her face.   
  
“You want this off?” he asks against her skin, trailing rough kisses down her jaw.  
  
“I-- oh god-- yes, please, yes--”   
  
“Then take it off.”   
  
She slows her scrabbling motions as he moves away from her, sprawling backwards across the opposite corner of the bed.  
  
“I... what?”  
  
“You heard me.” he suppresses a smirk with sheer force of will. He wants to know just how far she'll take this. It's the only unknown here, because he knows just exactly how far  _he'll_  take it, and just the thought of pinning her to the bed makes his armor that much less comfortable  
  
She falters, flushes, and damn if the uncertainty on her face isn't almost kind of  _cute_. Charon's finding he kind of likes the kid when she's not so crazily confident of everything...  
  
Then she straightens (and that thrill that slides through him at the way her nipples show, stiff, through the thin fabric of her shirt is just  _pathetic_ , he thinks, until he starts thinking about how much he'd like to get his mouth on them), her expression determined, and okay, now it's  _definitely_  kind of cute. The definition of 'cute' in this instance including  _sexy_  and  _I want to fuck you until you scream_.   
  
She leans forward, just slightly, and works the buckle to his leg armor with surprising deftness. In fact, it's almost no time at all before she strips him of armor completely, though her hands are shaking and her breathing keeps getting deeper and just a little erratic.  
  
Not that he can say much in that department, not when she brushes her palm over the erection straining at his pants and he can't even stop himself from bucking up into her hand.  
  
And that fucking smirk flashes back across her face. She thinks she's in  _control._  
  
Not for long. He wipes the smirk off her face with a fist in her hair, dragging her close by sheer force and pressing a bruising kiss to her mouth, her neck, anything he can reach. His hands give the same to her body, stroking and grasping hard enough that she'll have bruises tomorrow (and he's been hers long enough to know she doesn't bruise easily).  
  
“Anything I want? I want  _you._ ”  
  
He can feel the tension in her body, the war of logic and desire as she breathes  _we can't_  and without pause adds  _don't stop._  It thrills him, and that itself disgusts him, all of it fading into a blur of  _want_  when she whimpers into his mouth. He can hear his name in it.  
  
The meager scraps of self-control Charon still contained shred at that, at the sound of his name in that needy, breathless tone.  
  
He shifts and shoves her onto her back, rolling atop her, crushing her, but he doesn't care, not when he himself is crushed with memories normally held at bay.  
  
Fear.  
  
Pain.  
  
Women's voices, husky and terrified. The faint impression of olive green order, holding him in check. The dissonance input of senses into his fractured mind.   
  
Fear... pain... monsters. Himself.   
  
And a woman's voice: soft, needy, thick with desire and love.  
  
He comes. And comes to, finding her shaking under him, almost vibrating with need (and perhaps fear; right now, he can't entirely tell the difference). One, at least, he can fix, with fingers slid between their bodies as he pulls out of her. She's slick and tight, and it doesn't take much for her to buck into his hand and strangle screams in the back of her throat. Not his name.  
  
She falls asleep in something like moments, and Charon pulls a threadbare blanket over her before rising and donning his armor. He can't help but track the seconds until his hour is up. Six, five, four, three...  
  
Two.  
  
One.   
  
And everything comes crashing back; control, logic, real awareness. The mental dams he shoves memory behind. Every ounce of a long lifetime of self-loathing, and now another few bucketfuls to keep track of.  
  
Charon takes his proper place guarding the door, as his mistress sleeps. He can't help but glance her way every so often, when she murmurs or turns.  
  
He doesn't like her. No. Fuck, he's really  never liked much of anybody.  
  
It is entirely possibly, however  _(I am so fucked)_  that he loves her.


End file.
